


Everybody Loves America

by rae1112



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America is flattered by the attention but does not necessarily reciprocate it, Basically World/America, But if you know me you know it'll be USUK, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 11:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7047622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae1112/pseuds/rae1112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America is bewildered to find that everyone he encounters becomes infatuated with him. Well, everyone except for England, who is not sure what to think about all this new attention America is getting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> There will be some random OC's in this fic, but they have relatively minor roles. The only exception to this is Kazakhstan, who as far as I know doesn't have a canonical design yet. Let me know it I'm wrong about that!

When the sound of an alarm clock pierced the silence in a relatively cramped Virginia penthouse, its owner seriously considered grabbing it off the rickety nightstand and squeezing it until all of its parts were crushed and its eerie screeching was quieted for good. It was an ambitious desire for even the strongest of men, to crush a clock with one’s bare hands, but for the personification of the United States of America, it would have been child’s play.

Still, as usual, America did not give into his baser desires. He slammed his hand on the snooze button (nearly crushing the offending contraption anyway, despite his best intentions), and sat up straight immediately, knowing if he indulged himself and simply rolled over in bed, his next wake-up call would not be so friendly. 

America rubbed at his eyes, already dreading the day ahead of him. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before - he’d been on a conference call with a colleague, China, for the better part of his night. He’d even been forced to skip dinner in an attempt to placate some of China’s more outrageous demands. 

And he did not like skipping dinner.

He yawned, making a grab for his glasses, which rested dangerously close to the alarm clock he’d almost crushed. He didn’t seem to notice the damage, shoving the glasses on with little care and rolling out of bed. It looked to be a rather typical, irksome day already. The business with China had not been settled, his boss was outraged with him for one reason or another, and he had to prepare for a conference with his fellow personified-nations, which was happening the next day. Such were the unpleasant circumstances in his life. 

As he stumbled towards his bathroom, he grabbed his phone from its place on the opposite side of the room. Then, as he washed up, he went through the motions of his usual morning ritual, first checking the texts he’d missed when he so audaciously decided to sleep. 

His most recent one was from Canada, who also seemed to be displeased with him. This was not an unusual occurrence.

_Why haven’t you responded to my email yet? Mr. Clements has been waiting weeks now to be put on your boss’ roster. You can’t ignore me forever, America!_

America rolled his eyes, and promptly deleted Canada’s text. Silly Canada. There was a scarce amount of things that America _didn’t_ ignore, and they surprisingly did not include Canada’s rather zealous Ambassador. He scrolled down to preview his next few messages.

_Mexico: hablaste con mi jefe de la policía…_

_Cuba: you are a disgrace, and your spanish…_

_England: Are you visiting after the confer..._

_Spanish: ah amigo, maybe spanish isn…_

_Kazakhstan: America will you PLEASE email…_

_China: Did I forget to mention your terribl…_

_Russia: Please call back at your earlie…_

_Australia: YOU’RE JUST SCARED I’LL K…_

America looked up from his phone to inspect his teeth. Nothing unusual there. Everyone was either mildly annoyed with him or enraged as usual, but nothing drastic seemed to have occurred during the four hours of sleep he’d indulged in, so he counted it as a good morning. Making a mental note to text England that he would, indeed, be stopping by after the conference, he began the laborious task of cleaning and whitening his pristine teeth. 

By the time he was done getting ready, it was already seven, and he groaned in indignation. It seemed his planned morning run would have to be skipped today as well - this would do nothing for his gently expanding belly, which he’d promised himself he’d work back into a six-pack last month. It did not bode well for him at the upcoming conference; England was sure to poke at his stomach again (though if America dared to do the same to the Briton, they wouldn’t speak for months), and Russia, Germany, and Denmark would shake their heads in disappointment and ceremonially disown him from the not-real-but-in-actuality-totally-real buff hot-blond dudes club. They each had their own name for it (Germany’s variant named after an obscure sausage because he was shameless), but it undoubtedly existed, and America had already been thrown out.

Twice. 

But he couldn’t do much about it now - being hot would have to wait, as his boss always insisted - and he rushed to the garage, where his reliable and completely impractical Escalade was parked. He climbed inside, hoping that he hadn’t forgotten anything important at home (he was usually very good about remembering everything - it was England who was the most scatterbrained of his friends - but even America’s memory had limits, and his boss’ rather intricate demands seemed to test them every day), and reversed his car out of the building's tiny garage area. 

As he sped down the familiar streets of Arlington, America struggled not to look at his phone again, which was buzzing as his own diplomats and staffers were waking up and texting him for whatever innocuous reason they could think of. Very few federal employees knew America’s true rank and stature, but those that did didn’t hesitate to reach out to him. On a good day, America felt blessed and honored to have their trust. On a bad one, he wished they’d shut the hell up. He loved them, of course, for a nation loved every citizen they had. But that was of little comfort when the House majority leader texted at five in the morning wondering if ‘Mr. Jones’ had left strawberry jam on his desk. 

He only stopped ignoring his phone when the president called. 

“Yes ma’am,” he answered immediately, though with limited enthusiasm. 

“ _America, you’re late,_ ” the president grumbled back at him. He could hear the familiar bustle of the White House in the background. _“You’re going to force me to brief you on a line that’s not secure. This does not amuse me.”_

“Nothing amuses you!” America said, truly meaning it as a fond statement. He could practically hear his boss rolling her eyes over the phone. 

“ _Just get here,_ ” she said, “ _You have a lot of paperwork waiting for you. The Chinese president wants you to decide on a visitation date for Chin - er, Mr. Wang next month. And some foreign dignitary from Kazakhstan keeps calling my interns, insisting on speaking to an ‘Alfred Jones’ -_ ”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of that,” America said, mentally punching Kazakhstan in the neck. The Central Asian country was perhaps understandably excited about hosting them for once, but he’d have to learn the hard way that America replied to emails when he damn-well pleased. And, if he _truly_ wanted America to respond quickly, he’d man up and join Snapchat just like everybody else who communicated with America. 

And America was convinced he was doing them all a favor. Sure, England bitched high-and-low about what a chore using the app was, but he soon began sending unironic selfies of himself with kitty ears (which America screenshotted for strictly comedic purposes) and therefore could no longer credibly claim that America was wasting their time. 

_“Are you listening?”_ No, he thought, but instead answered affirmatively. _“Good. Last piece of business - there’s a constituent here looking to talk to someone. She’ll be in at noon._ ”

“You’re allowed to call ‘constituents’ people, ma’am. Or women...or men, children…” 

“ _She was here last night too,_ ” the president continued, ignoring America’s commentary, “ _She looks rather...odd, but is committed. That’s the type of - oh all right,_ person _\- who votes in local elections. So I need you to talk to her. Do that likeable thing of yours and make sure she elects a Democrat next week.”_

“Yes ma’am,” America said, finally seeing the White House gates from his dusty front window, “Though I should warn you, I may get a partisan mood swing and convince her to vote Republican instead.” 

_“I’ll take my chances,”_ the president muttered darkly, and America grinned. “ _Mr. Stries is saying he sees your car. I’m going to hang up then - come up to my office when you’re done with Ch - Mr. Wang._ ” 

“You’ll get the hang of it eventually,” America said encouragingly, referring to her frustrating habit of using his colleagues’ country names instead of their human ones. She was far from the worst offender however - Mexico once had a president who straight-up refused to use anything but country names, even in the presence of ordinary citizens. That had been an awkward gaffe to explain. 

He parked his car haphazardly (ignoring Mr. Stries’ pointed glare) and made his way through the hallowed halls of the White House to his tiny office at the end of a particularly winding hallway, not in any hurry to call and get chewed out by China. He greeted several interns and staffers on his way, attempting to ignore the sparkly-eyed young female interns that all seemed to be enamoured with him. The attention was nice, but he was about five-hundred years too old for them. Besides, their positive attention was negligible in comparison to the other staffers’ weary glances at him. America sighed. One drunk dinner party and suddenly everyone distrusted him. C’ie la vie. 

By the time America settled down in his office, barked at some intern for industrial strength coffee, and fiddled with his computer and headset until they both functioned, China had worked himself up into a hysterical frenzy. 

“ _Oho, glad to see you have decided to grace me with your presence, fatass,_ ” China sneered, and thus began their productive conversation. 

\--------------

By the time his call with China was over, America was in an inconsolable mood. His president wisely did not ask for too many details, instead jotting down the dates that ‘Mr. Wang’ would be visiting Washington. America, too irate to consider making small talk with his boss, stomped out of her office and made his way to the only responsibility he had left - the rouge voter who’d caught his president’s attention. He breathed heavily on his way down, and tried to ignore the whispers of the ever-loyal staffers he passed by. He was well aware that his skin was probably blotchy and red, a common side-effect of losing his temper. He didn’t do it often, but China had been able to set him off quite easily lately - his seething and scrunched up face was likely not an attractive sight. He did his best to relax, hoping the voter wouldn’t sense his rising desire to punch a brick wall. 

“Misses... Carlisle?” he said when he finally arrived, peeking in through the doorway of a tiny White House conference room. He straightened out when he spotted the older woman, sitting a good distance away from the entryway in a creaky wooden chair. America noticed she’d abandoned all the available modern office seats - for a wild moment, he thought that maybe she’d brought the wooden chair with her. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” 

“It’s quite alright,” she replied in a light airy voice. Then she stood up, the motion causing the assortment of baubles and charms attached to her clothes and shawl to jingle. “I’m happy to speak with you...Mr. Jones.”

America grinned instinctively, plastering on his politician disposition, and motioned for her to sit once more. “What can I do for you today?” He approached briskly, taking the seat right next to her, a gesture she seemed to appreciate as she perked up as soon as he was settled. 

“Well,” she began, “I live here, in DC. In the Foggy Bottom area. I’ve been trying to speak with my local Congressmen, but to no avail.” 

“Yes, um,” America said, doing his best not to think ill of his employees, “They can be a bit hard to get ahold of sometimes, I understand. What seems to be the problem?” 

The woman frowned, causing the lines on her face to deepen with displeasure. “My cat was murdered by the mafia.”

A beat of silence followed her proclamation. 

“Sorry, what?” America said, not even willing to believe he’d heard that. “I was daydreaming a bit, excuse me.”

“The mafia,” she repeated patiently, as if America was a schoolchild stumped by a difficult algebra problem, “They targeted Mr. Pickles, and took him out. He was out on my windowsill. Stupid bastard of a cat, I’d always forbid him from sitting there, he clearly knew too much…” 

“Hm.” America hummed affirmatively. His president would likely advise him to dismiss the old woman, now that it was clear that she was bonkers, but he wasn’t inclined to do so. His work had been unpleasant all week, ranging from firing loyal military generals to putting up with China’s shenanigans and ignoring Canada’s passive aggressive texts. He felt he deserved some quality time with a somewhat insane American citizen. “I see. This is very serious indeed.” 

“I’m glad you understand!” she said excitedly, “Frankly, I wasn’t being honest with you earlier Mr. Jones. I did go see those Congressmen. But when they heard my affliction, they, well…”

And America was flooded with affection for the older woman. He immediately pulled his chair closer to hers, and moved to put his arm around the back of her wooden chair. Gently, he said, “That was wrong of them, Mrs. Carlisle. I’m very sorry about your cat.”

She smiled at him in gratitude. “Yes, well. He was a good old boy,” she said finally, “Stupid cat, of course, getting involved with all that mafia business in the first place.” 

“I had a rambunctious cat too, once,” America said, remembering a small furry Scottish fold he’d adopted at some point in the sixties, “He was a rather pompous little kitty. I spoiled him to bits though. He died when a hawk swooped him up from my ranch in Texas one day. Though maybe he didn’t die - maybe he fought off the hawk and started a gang with the most domin -” he quickly cut himself off, flushing bright red. Though he’d gotten a handle of his habit in recent years, he sometimes still went off on childish rants which caused everyone in his vicinity to scoff, unimpressed with his wandering mind. 

His guest, however, merely smiled serenely at his wonderment. “I hope your cat did start a hawk gang in Virginia,” she said completely seriously, and America found himself grinning at her completely genuinely. She seemed to have noticed his drop in facade. “You look much younger, dear,” she commented, “when you act more open. Natural.”

“Ah, yeah,” America chuckled, “Unfortunately that’s not exactly smiled upon in my line of work.” 

“Well, what about outside of work?” she immediately inquired. It was a pushy line of questioning, though America didn’t really mind. However, he had no way of explaining that he _had_ no life outside of work - his socializing was limited to Canada on a good day and Mexico when a Republican wasn’t in power. Distance proved to be a serious obstacle when trying to build relationships with other nations. They only really saw each other at work functions, and America hadn’t figured out how to change that situation. The whole ‘let’s all meet in a peaceful environment without declaring a war or signing a peace treaty’ was still a rather novel concept for them. 

“There isn’t much that goes on outside of work,” America finally said, deciding to go with a half truth. Still, the woman seemed perceptive, and she leaned in to look at him in a scrutinizing manner. Which was a bit awkward, considering America still had his arm wrapped around her chair. The proximity was a little too close, in his opinion. 

And then, the worst possible outcome of the conversation - there was pity in her eyes, likely because it looked like he was a lonely overworked teenager with no friends or love life. Which, of course, was simply not true - he was a lonely overworked immortal nation with no friends or love life. And he was a superpower. And totally ripped. His protein shakes loved him. 

“It’s fine!” he said, desperate now to expunge the pity lining her face, “I’m living gloriously, really! I have a new food processor, I just got a new apartment smack-dab in the middle of Arlington, I have my alien with -”

“Sorry, alien?” 

“-me, and I have plenty of human contact. Everything is awesome. I’m like, super!”

Hehe, a super- _power_. Canada would likely stab him in the face for that one. 

“Hm,” the old lady began, now inspecting him closely, “I see.” They sat in silence for an uncomfortable minute, America somewhat feeling glum from being forced to defend his non-existent social life to a total stranger. 

“...So I’ll be going now.” she said abruptly. She got up and fussed at her shawl, playfully pushing America’s hand off her chair. 

“Wh-already?” he asked, disoriented with her action, “Wait, what ab - what about Mr. Pickles? Did you want our assistance? I-I’m not sure how much we could do, but maybe I could personally look up some-”

“Oh, you’re absolutely precious,” she interrupted, leaning over and pinching America’s cheek roughly. “I thought all you government types were suits with voice boxes. You’re special though, I see.”

America stared at her, bewildered. She merely smiled at him, eyes twinkling, and easily pushed past America’s knees, jingling as she walked. America was slightly mesmerized to find that her long, grey hair had a maroon streak in it. 

“Take care, Mr. Jones,” she said lightly, not even turning around to look at him. Then she was gone, leaving no trace of her presence, save the door which hung awkwardly open. 

America stared after her, still rather wide-eyed. Then, as if sensing his momentary freedom, his phone began buzzing incessantly right on cue. He glanced at the screen - his president and Russia had managed to simultaneously text him using capslock. He grabbed it off the table and stuffed it in his suit pocket. Back to the grind. 

Still, he couldn’t quite shake his odd experience with Mrs. Carlisle and her dead cat. It wasn’t a phenomenon that occurred in the White House every day. Too late, he realized he forgot to record her voter preference, and he cursed his absentmindedness. 

As he left, he didn’t notice the creaky wooden chair disappear behind him. 

\-------------- 

The next day was the day of America’s conference. This time, he did crush his alarm clock. Accidentally, of course. Even before he was fully awake, he was making a mental note to text his PA and notify her that his clock would yet again need replacing…

He rolled out of bed miserably, already dreading the day ahead. It was bad enough that the flight to Kazakhstan would take fifteen hours, at least. But once he was there, he was going to have to avoid a barrage of inquiries - some polite, some less so - about things he really didn’t give a flying hoot about. To put it mildly. 

Well, at least there would be an afterparty to amuse him. As usual, he’d get pleasantly buzzed and watch all the Europeans get blitzed and make fools of themselves. He’d be lonesome in his merriment, however - though the African and Asiatic countries also enjoyed snickering at the Europeans, they never wished to do it in America’s company…

He shook his head. It didn’t bother him too much. It wasn’t like he had _no_ friends - dragging England’s drunk ass back to his ‘flat’ for the past decade had earned him some personal loyalty from the Brit that, for once, was not dependant on politics. And Canada didn’t seem to hate him too much this month either. So there was that. 

Taking his fully charged phone into his bathroom as usual, America ignored its contents as he relieved himself, took an abnormally long shower, brushed his teeth methodically, and worked some product into his hair (looking effortlessly gorgeous took a lot more effort than most assumed, unfortunately). After he’d shaved and lotioned his skin up, he sighed loudly, and finally picked up his phone to see what the damage of the morning was.

The first message was from Kazakhstan, and he immediately cringed. In the aftermath of his strange meeting with Mrs. Carlisle, he’d forgot to email him, and it was clearly too late to do so now. Still, he opened it, expecting the worst and already coming up with justifications to his boss about why he couldn’t be bothered to send one measly reply to colleague. 

_Kazakhstan: Hey America, I noticed you didn’t reply yesterday_ \- America rolled his eyes; clearly everything was off to a great start - _which is completely understandable, of course!_

America blinked, and looked up into the mirror, his own confused reflection staring back at him. Then he looked down to reread, because clearly he had gone momentarily insane. 

_Kazakhstan: Hey America, I noticed you didn’t reply yesterday, which is completely understandable of course! I know you are a busy man. Running such a strong and beautiful must country must take tireless commitment!_

“I didn’t know Kazakhstan learned how to be sarcastic in English,” America said to himself, and read on. 

_Anyway, regarding your accommodations: you will be staying in the imperial suite of the hotel -_

America’s eyes widened in shock. The imperial suite? He hadn’t been to Kazakhstan in a while, but from what he remembered, that particular suite involved a California king bed, complete with an ornate bed frame with wood solid oak from Kazakhstan's beautiful, quickly diminishing forests. The sheets had been silk, the pillows stuffed with goose feather, and it all smelled vaguely of lilac, which America secretly adored. The room itself had also been huge - a ridiculous nine-hundred square feet, which fit a bathroom (beautifully designed, of course, with all the latest amenities), an entertainment section, and more seating than any one nation knew what to do with. Overall it was ornate, glistening, gorgeous.

It was also usually occupied by Russia. 

America slammed his phone down on the granite top and stormed out of his bathroom, huffing. What was Kazakhstan playing at? Stupid things like room assignments may not have much consequence in the world of humans, but for nations, idiotic gestures like that used to mean the difference between peace treaties and proxy wars. Certainly, they no longer played by such extreme rules, but Russia was a spiteful bugger, one of the few who _would_ take a room demotion seriously enough to retaliate. 

America shoved his shirt off and dropped it to the floor, eyeing his neatly-pressed suit angrily all the while, as if it had caused his misfortune. Whatever the cause of Kazakhstan’s ‘generosity’, America would have to fix it before Russia caught on and threw a tantrum. Such was the life America led as a responsible nation.

When he had calmed down, and dressed in his Gucci suit (though he honestly prefered Men’s Warehouse - Gucci was always too tight around his midsection), he retrieved his phone from the bathroom and sent a quick _We’ll talk about it_ to Kazakhstan. He found that he didn’t have the patience to see what the other nations had to say to him, so he turned his phone off completely. Grateful he wasn’t late for once, he grabbed his two-hundred pound suitcase with ease (hegemons did not travel lightly), eased his glasses on, and made his way out of the penthouse. 

Thankfully, his car was already waiting outside, though he was unhappy to note that his driver was actually one of the starstruck interns the White House had hired. As he approached, she waved perkily, and even giggled when he came to a stop in front of her. 

“Good morning, Mr. Jones!” she immediately started, “I’m sorry Mr. Klein couldn’t be here today, he caught some sort of flu. But they sent me instead, and I’m a great driver, scouts honor!” she threw up three fingers, and America tried to smile at her efforts.

“No problem, Miss…?” she gasped, clapping her hands to her face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I should have introduced myself!” He waved off her contrition. “It’s Miss Davis, but you can just call me Mindy!” 

“Alright, Mindy -” he began, but stopped when she flushed as red as the hair on her head, making her look like a fluffy tomato. Perhaps these interns were more enamoured with him than he’d realized. He fought off the urge to roll his eyes, and instead plastered on his 100-watt smile. “Let’s just get my bags into the trunk and be on our way, yeah? Great to meet you, by the way!”

The intern of course insisted she be the one to load America’s bags, although they seemed to be twice her size. He attempted to help, but every time he approached, she collapsed into a fit of giggles. Eventually he realized it was more productive to simply let her work alone, even if she kept throwing glances his way. As he watched her work, he indulged in one tiny eye roll - having an infatuation was fine, but this level was ridiculous. He’d have to ask his boss to completely switch Mindy out. 

It was still early in the morning, so he was not surprised to see his neighborhood still as a mortuary. Only one woman was jogging down, on the other side of the street. However, to America’s surprise, instead of merely continuing on her route, she glanced at him, slowed her jog, and immediately made her way to the curb where he and Mindy stood. She grinned, her ponytail bopping behind her, and came to a stop rather close for America’s usual standards. She put her hands on her hips and leaned in as she spoke:

“Hiya!” she said, and America, properly freaked out now, hesitantly waved at her. Mindy was glaring at her furiously. The woman didn’t seem to notice. “I haven’t seen you around before, sexy stranger!”

“Er,” America replied awkwardly, “Uh, I guess not.” He knew to some degree that he was attractive, perhaps more attractive than most, but he certainly never got attention just standing on a curb before (though he was very popular at bars and clubs). He shuffled awkwardly, hoping Mindy would hurry and finish loading the bags instead of glaring at some stranger so obviously. 

“Why don’t you give me your number, we can get to know each other better!” she said and casually whipped her phone out from her sports bra. America immediately backed up.

“Um, isn’t that a wedding ring on your finger?” Mindy said, and America found himself grateful for her interference. She was correct, at any rate - the woman’s left hand showed a simple gold band around her ring finger. However, she merely waved Mindy away.

“What my husband doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she said, and winked audaciously at America, who found he’d had quite enough of this interaction. 

“Right, well, unfortunately I’m moving away right now, to...Detroit...” he said confidently, shoving past Mindy to retrieve his bags from the ground. He heaved them into the trunk of the car with one hand, and both Mindy and the woman looked delighted. “So I’m afraid I gotta get going. Have a nice rest of your day, ma’am!” He grabbed Mindy by her elbow, and she seemed to regain enough sense to dash to the driver’s seat and whip out the car keys. America gave one last smile to the strange woman, who was now looking very predatory, and practically threw himself into the backseat, slamming the door behind him. Mindy got the hint and turned the ignition as soon as he was inside, and pulled out away from the curb right as the woman tried to approach them again. America didn’t speak until they turned the corner, and lost sight of her. 

“Dear god,” he said, slumping back into his seat, “What the hell was that?” 

“I know, right?” Mindy sneered, sounding quite a bit like England when he got into one of his upper-class snits, “Who does she think she is, talking to you like that! As if she has a chance!”

America thought this was a rather bold statement to make in front of an employer, but did not respond to her remark. Instead he leaned back even further and shut his eyes, hoping that Mindy would leave him in peace.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, though America was aware Mindy stared at him through the rearview mirror nearly the entire time. Even more unusually, whenever they stopped at a traffic light, complete strangers stared at him too. They looked almost dazed when they did. He was so weirded out, he moved to the middle seat, and made a note to text his PA to ask for his windows to be tinted.

Despite having an early start, they made it to the small airport late due to the incident with the married woman and Mindy’s excruciatingly slow driving. As soon as the car stopped (in front of America’s private jet; nations had certain perks after all), America jumped out and marched up to his flight crew, who were standing at attention in front of the plane, stony faced as ever. He knew they didn’t like it when he was late, and he was all set to apologize for wasting everybody’s time. However, when his pilot’s eyes landed on him, she uncharacteristically broke into a huge grin. It halted America’s approach. 

“Mister Jones!” she called jubilantly, her thick Jamaican accent coloring her vowels. America frowned in puzzlement - his pilot hadn’t smiled at him in the five years she’d flown with him. “Happy to see you, as always of course!” The rest of his flight crew nodded eagerly in agreement. 

“Mr. Jones,” America turned around to find Mindy struggling to carry all his bags at once, “Would you like some company on your trip? I’m supposed to be back at the White House by seven thirty, but I would gladly stay with you instead!”

“I need a drink,” America muttered, and was immediately offered four kinds of bourbon. 

\--------------

With some help from his unusually peppy flight crew, America managed to get rid of Mindy and get settled into his plane, albeit behind schedule. After waving off every member of his flight flew - repeatedly - he finally threw his legs up on a table, taking advantage of his pilot’s indulgent mood. He pulled out his phone from his suit pocket and turned it on, eagerly looking for a distraction from the strange behavior everyone seemed to be displaying today. Nothing would pull him back to the cruel realities of the world better than the textual thrashing his colleagues would surely give him.

He opened his messages, taking note that he had a higher volume of them than usual. Blessing in disguise; it would take at least an hour to work through them. He smirked a little to himself, and opened his first one, sent only minutes ago by Canada. 

_America,_ it read, _Are you rooming with anyone this trip? If you aren’t, you can definitely room with me. Only if you want to. No pressure, of course._

America raised a well-groomed eyebrow. Well, that was rather uncharacteristic of Canada. Usually his brother preferred to be as far away from America as possible, to minimize potential confusion about their identities. He shrugged; perhaps Canada finally needed money or resources from America, like everyone else. 

 

_I’ll check._ America wrote back, unpleasantly reminded of Kazakhstan’s strange rooming gaffe. He supposed it was better to stay with Canada than on the streets when Russia inevitably took his room back. 

His next message was from China. He groaned inwardly, and read: 

_I am sorry about the way I behaved this week America. There is no excuse for calling you such names. It was unprofessional and simply rude. I’d like to make it up to you; Kazakhstan is not an ideal location, but I know Astana has a locally run Chinese restaurant with a beautiful view right in the center. How about we dine together, just the two of us, tonight? My treat, of course._

America put down his phone again, now 100% baffled. China never invited America out unless it was for business. _Never_. In their long history, they had gone out together three times, and each time they had been accompanied by the other members of the Security Council (aka a very drunk England and Russia and a rather put-out France, who gossiped with China all night, leaving America to sip at his whiskey in peace). This was completely unprecedented. America would have assumed China mistakenly sent the message to him, if not for the direct address at the beginning. He picked up his phone, eager to forget yet another person’s strange behavior.

But the next few messages did not mollify him. 

_France: Amerique! It has been FAR too long since we have seen each other! I look forward to our reunion, mon cher! If you are not doing anything after the meeting tonight, why don’t you and I have an adventure in Astana together, hm~? All by ourselves, no need for anyone else, d’accord?_

He moved on to the next one. 

_Poland: omg Amerika, I saw your new pictures online. You are so HOT! lets hang out after the meetings and compare abs!! :D <3 _

He deleted _that_ one. 

_Sweden: Hello Amerika. Do you like flowers. Many people are partial to roses. Are you among their number._

_Belarus: It is my understanding that beautiful people gravitate towards each other. Perhaps this is why you and I have a raw and undeniable sexual chemistry than cannot be matched. Meet me in my room after the conference tonight, or there with be consequences._

_Japan: America I am so sorry for not replying to your last message. I cannot believe I have allowed myself to become so rude. Please let me make up for my behavior. I have brought you several graphic novels that I am sure you will enjoy, as well as more movies. Perhaps we can watch them together, tonight?_

_Prussia: 8====D ← me when i see u bby_

His phone vibrated and he nearly dropped it in shock. He saw it was Russia, and desperately swiped at it, hoping for some semblance of normalcy, 

_Russia: Tonight you and I will drink a bottle of my finest vodka each. I heard you have the imperial suite - this will be a perfect place to f-_

America couldn’t read the rest. He abandoned his phone on his seat and locked himself in the bathroom for the rest of the flight, refusing to come out, even when the flight attendants tried to coax him out with chocolate cake and a Zoboomafoo DVD. 


	2. Good Omens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America changes his tune. And runs into England quite literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did it take me so long? Who knows. But here I am, so love me.

By the time his plane landed, America had gotten himself into a terrible mood. Convinced that all of his colleagues had conspired to pull some malevolent prank, he’d replied to each of them with a curt “Fuck off,” and turned off his phone. In a tone that was uncharacteristically rude, he informed his flight crew that they were free to return to the United States without him, and that he’d manage to find his own way around Astana. 

Of course, that had been easier said than done, as his Kazakh was non-existent and his Russian was clunky at best. Still, he managed to order a cab (and the woman who he spoke to was _much_ friendlier than previous taxi operators he’d encountered, though he was staunchly ignoring any strange behavior he observed) and had even held some sort of polite conversation with the cab driver along the way (this also involved a rather starstruck expression the driver was giving him the entirety of the ride - America chalked it up to idle admiration of his suit and dismissed the thought). 

Still, when he arrived at the hotel, he had not shaken his foul temper. He’d dumped his things at the front desk, saying in some mangled variation of Russian that he’d return for them later, and set off to find Kazakhstan and demand an explanation for all the stupidity he’d encountered that day.

It was relatively easy to find the Central Asian nation - he was in the main banquet hall, barking in Kazakh at workers who were still setting up seating. But when his eyes landed on America, he immediately broke out in a grin and dropped all the work he was doing.

“America!” Kazakhstan called, striding towards him confidently, “You have finally arrived! Welcome, I hope everything is to your liking so far!” 

America ignored Kazakhstan’s somewhat over-enthusiastic greeting. “I’ve had a hellish flight so let’s skip the pleasantries, if you don’t mind. Is there any particular reason you gave Russia’s room to me?” 

Kazakhstan blinked owlishly, looking genuinely confused. “Well...I thought it’d be a nice gesture...you’ve traveled so far, after all…”

America snorted in derision. “And I suppose Russia’s going to take this all in stride, is he?” However, much to America’s surprise, that comment earned a dark look from Kazakhstan.

“I didn’t know Russia’s opinion meant so much to you,” Kazakhstan, and there was no other word for it, _sneered_ , “Are you involved with each other? I must say, you can do much better than that maniac, America.” 

The thought of _anyone_ thinking that America and Russia were romantically involved made America slightly nauseous.

“Where on earth did that conclusion come from?” America said, now eyeing his colleague with some modicum of concern. “That was quite a leap, Kazakhstan, Jesus Christ.” 

Kazakhstan looked ready to answer when a rather pitchy voice interrupted them: “Oh my _gawd_ America, why didn’t you say you were here? We were ~waiting~!” 

America nearly groaned out loud. He had no desire to speak to Poland, especially after his strange barrage of messages which all seemed to be some sort of variation of _I love your abs! You’re hot! I’m hot too omg what a coincidence!_ He wasn’t even sure how Poland had come to these conclusions in the first place - America had _one_ picture of himself in a bathing suit on his Facebook, and his body wasn’t visible because at the time he’d been picking England up with the intent of throwing the Brit into the ocean. Was that what Poland was basing his observations on? 

Additionally, to add to America’s displeasure, when he turned around to face the Polak, he saw that France was accompanying him. And they both had matching smirks on their faces. And if America didn’t know any better, he’d say that they looked slightly predatory. 

“We thought you would be coming later, Amerique,” France said when they stopped their approach - they stood far too close to him, though America chose to blame it on European standards of personal space. “Still, lovely to see you! Now, drop this second-rate nation and come with us, hm? I have a lovely dinner planned!” 

“I am your _host_ ,” Kazakhstan growled, glaring at France. Poland merely waved him off. 

“Now now, K-Z, we’re, like, brothers but you need to step off - America only hangs out with Europeans, duh!” 

“That is in no way true,” America said, completely befuddled. He didn’t hang out only with Europeans. In fact, he didn’t hang out with anyone. Did his paperwork count? Or his gym equipment? 

“Kazakhst _ohn_ ” France said in an accent considered exaggerated even by his standards, “We know you are still busy setting up, yes? We would not want to disrupt you.”

Kazakhstan looked torn between wanting to perfectly plan his conference and letting America out of his sight. Finally, he breathed a sigh, seemingly of surrender. “Ладно. I’ll finish up here, I hope you enjoy your dinner.”

“Wait, what about my room?” America asked in a last ditch effort to spare himself from Russia’s wrath - he figured that the very suggestive message Russia sent him had merely been an attempt to mess with America’s head as revenge for the stolen room. America hated to think how far Russia would take the joke.

But Kazakhstan merely smiled serenely. “It’s yours America, not Russia’s. I am always looking to expand my network of allies,” he said and, to America’s horror, _winked_. 

And then France and Poland pulled at America’s arms, dragging him out of the banquet room. It was a testament to America’s shock that they managed to do so without sustaining injury. 

“Did you guys see that?” America immediately demanded once they were out of Kazakhstan’s earshot, “He _winked_ at me! Kazakhstan! Straight as an arrow, been after Ukraine for like three-hundred years, Kazakhstan!” 

“He doesn’t have a chance with you anyway,” Poland said, sounding very much like Mindy had when she’d dismissed the married woman currying America’s favor. 

“I-what? That’s not the point!” America protested. He also noticed that both France and Poland had not loosened their hold on his arms, and he strangely looked like he was accompanying two suitors to an old-timey ball. 

“Your biceps are delicious,” Poland sighed contently, leaning heavily into America’s side. To America’s horror, Poland then proceeded to feel up his arm rather invasively. “I’m going to kill the person who started the rumour you were fat.”

“Angleterre, most likely,” France sniffed, as if this were a totally normal conversation to be having. “He has always been jealous of our precious Amerique, and is always trying to horde him for himself! Ah, but no longer, hon hon! Amerique, how do you feel about pheasant?”

America was shaking his head in bewilderment. This was an elaborate prank - it surely had to be. In the modern age, Poland and France could not say two words to each other without becoming seriously exasperated. `And now they were conspiring to - seduce him? Feed him? The latter he’d appreciate. The former he’d run away screaming from. 

“Thanks for the offer, but I have some work to do,” America said, quickly detangling himself from the two Europeans. “My topic is conservation, I don’t have any of the relevant research. One of the White House interns dropped the ball - shocking, I know!” He backed away slowly, taking care not to give France or Poland any sign of vulnerability or fear. “Silly interns. This is why we don’t employ any of them. If they’re willing to work for free, why bother?”

“America,” France said, “If you’re really so worried about your work...why don’t you let us help?”

America stopped his retreat half-way. The prank vibes were getting stronger still. “You guys...want to help me? Since when? Last time I asked you for help, France, you were offended I was intruding on your time of ‘mourning’, and I assumed you had gotten into serious trouble - I felt bad for ten whole minutes! Then I find out you were just mourning your stupid parrot? And the stupid parrot was fine, you just didn’t want to help me!” 

France kept a rather guarded expression on his face. He did not, however, refute America’s accusation. America turned to Poland instead. 

“And you!” he exclaimed, “I can’t even remember the last time you helped me! With anything!” 

“We, like, just wanna do you a favor!” Poland replied, “You work so hard - and France and I finished our pre-conference work ages ago! Mostly because we don’t really have anything else to do. Our bosses have deemed us “a liability” for some reason.”

“You ruin _one_ mid-level private meeting with China’s boss and suddenly you’re an embarrassment…” France muttered, crossing his arms in a huff. 

America frowned. On one hand, the two could have some sort of angle, conspiring to ruin America’s presentation for their own nefarious ends. Perhaps they’d turn his speech on conservation into a complete laughing stock, giving more credence to the EU position. Or perhaps they wanted to see him humiliated in front of his peers, just because Europeans could get petty for no reason. Or they could be plotting his ultimate ruin with Kazakhstan and Russia in tow, because they were all sick of the current world order, and have decided that a ruined speech on conservation was the way to begin their reconstruction.

Either way, it meant America would have a free night, and Poland and France would be too busy to mention his biceps for the rest of the night.

“This is so kind of you!” America said, clasping his hands together in what he hoped was not an over exaggerated fashion, “Man, I really owe you guys one. You’re saving me here. Gotta say, you’ve moved up in my ranking.”

“Your...ranking?” Poland immediately inquired, blue eyes wide, and America could have smacked himself for his own insolence. 

“Yeah...I mean, it’s no big deal,” he began, not seeing a way to backtrack and retract his statement (and not realizing he could have simply laughed it off as a joke and bound away), “Everyone must do it! It’s just kind of an informal scale, you know, of who I like and don’t!” When the two did not stop their intent staring, America figured it would be a perfect moment to back away. “Sooo...right. I’m going to go. Thank you guys for all of your help. I’ll, yeah.” 

They let him go, still rooted to their section of Kazakhstan’s carefully carpeted floors. America was grateful for the respite; the two were overwhelming in any situation. Even if they were joking about completing his presentation, America could not find it in him to care. It wasn’t too important, and he could handle another lecture from his boss. After the day he’d had, he just wanted to go to his absurdly fancy room and face the inevitable conflict he’d have with Russia. Letting France and Poland stew about his stupid and arbitrary ranking system was the perfect way to hype himself up. 

He stalked over to the nearest elevator after personally picking up his luggage once more from the front desk (he’d needed to fight off a rather amorous secretary to do so - it seemed Kazakhs really enjoyed tall blonde men with an inadequate grasp of their language). He’d been careful not to rouse Kazakhstan’s attention again. There was no need, after finally ridding himself of France and Poland, to engage in tiresome small talk once more.

...He’d been an extrovert once upon a time, hadn’t he?

He briefly thought to invite England to hang out (read: force England to fetch him some coffee then steal his pre-work presentation notes) but dismissed the thought quickly; England, scatterbrained as usual, had approved the dates of the conference months ago without realizing his Parliament had scheduled some sort of deposition. Long story short, he’d be arriving a day later than everyone else, grumpy as all hell, and would be no use to America. Pity; America was curious about his opinion of France’s sudden usefulness. 

To his great relief, his palatial suite was empty when he arrived. He tossed his luggage, carelessly, into the nearest storage area he could find and collapsed ungraciously onto a couch. It was a lavish couch. It seemed it had been dressed in full regalia, an absurd notion, though not one America would put past Kazakhstan. 

“‘S a pretty color,” America decided out loud, running his fingers through some gold fringe attached to the cushions, “Why’s everyone acting so weird?”

It was the mantra he’d had in the back of his mind that whole day. His colleagues, his interns, his taxi drivers - hell, his notoriously grumpy pilot had cracked a smile. Several of them. And France had decided to be helpful for the first time that decade. What had gotten into everyone? 

“It’s a prank,” America said, aloud again, as if someone was there to reason with him, “A big one. A global conspiracy. They want my guard down.” He frowned. His imaginary conspirator offered no suggestions. “Have I done something particularly heinous? Is somebody dead?” Again, no solutions were forthcoming. He groaned.

There wasn’t much he could do to change, or fix, his situation. If everyone would insist on acting like an asshole, that was no concern of America’s. Perhaps they really didn’t want to hear his presentation on conservation, and were hoping his own laziness would allow him to trust the likes of Poland and France to do it for him. If that was the hope of the nations it attendance, it was a good one; America was not feeling particularly productive. Instead, he decided to do what he did best - play mobile games until he was tired enough to pass out.

Unfortunately, there was one factor that inhibited this plan of action - his stomach was growling, and he’d only eaten chocolate cake for the past five hours.

He cursed his own bodily needs, fervently feeling the need for nourishment but having neither the will not desire to rise up off the garish couch and feed himself. Perhaps he should have taken France up on the offer of the stupid pheasant. Yes, he would be mildly uncomfortable and annoyed the entire time, but he certainly wouldn’t be hungry. 

On a whim, he decided to try something that had not worked for at least the past seven years - prank though this may be, America thought to push his luck and see how far it would extend. 

It was difficult, at first, to find the right number, because America had stopped labeling Canada by his proper name in his personal contact list decades ago. The name varied, of course, and it was always difficult to remember how exactly he’d labeled Canada’s international cell phone. Thankfully, he got in on the first try - it wasn’t clever, but calling Canada _my hat_ was always a hilarious way to rile his northern neighbor up. 

“ _America?_ ” Canada had picked up on the first ring. It was slightly uncharacteristic. “ _Hey, did you make it into Astana?_ ”

“I did,” America replied, “Safe and sound. No incidents to speak of. Only a minor amount of chocolate cake consumed.” 

A lighthearted statement, though not a particularly amusing one. Which was why America was somewhat befuddled at Canada’s responding roar of laughter.

“ _A MINOR amount!!_ ” Canada repeated in apparent rapturous glee, “ _Of chocolate cake, consumed? That’s hilarious, America!”_

“Is it?” America wondered out loud. 

“ _I’m happy to hear you’ve made it safely,”_ Canada said, ignoring his strange faux paux. In fact, he seemed to still be partially chortling. _“Never a dull moment when you’re around.”_

America thought the fondness in Canada’s tone seemed out of place, more suited to a drunk heart-to-heart session than a rushed call during a conference. Still, recognizing Canada’s strange behavior did nothing to encourage America to curb it. His stomach was growling, after all. “Have you eaten yet?” he asked bluntly, “I’m starving, but I’m also feeling very attached to my couch. How ambivalent are you about getting me some fries?” 

To America’s extreme surprise, his normally un-accommodating, busy, and occasionally biting ally replied, “ _Not at all! I was just hunting down somewhere to eat, anyway. I’m with Prussia but I’ll absolutely ditch him!”_

America was honestly stunned. Canada had been trying to spend time with Prussia for the past few months, and suddenly he was willing to drop that for America’s insatiable desire for fries? 

“Erm, he can come with, if you want,” America said, thinking this to be a happy medium for the situation. Sure, Prussia had sent him some disturbing texts recently, but he was almost certainly joking. If there was anyone who would go all-in on a prank of any kind, it was Prussia. “I don’t mind. He just has to respect the fact that I want to veg out - I got France and Poland of all people to do my presentation for me, can you believe it?” 

“ _There’s no need to invite Prussia!_ ” Canada said almost breathlessly. America’s eyes widened a touch. “ _He’ll only disturb you. Don’t invite anyone, actually. I’ll be there soon. What do you want me to pick up for you._ ”

This wasn’t normal. America recognized this. This was completely out of character for Canada. But he was starving, and he figured if Canada really was kidding, he would simply hang up and go have a good laugh with Prussia about how they left America to starve on his lazy ass for a night. 

But if he did bring the food…

“I want sushi. From Kiku Matsuri, that’s Kazakhstan’s best Japanese place,” America began slowly, “I only want the yellowtail, maybe some of the tuna sashimi. Oh, but I also want McDonald’s. They just opened one here, right? I know the lines are _crazy_ , because there’s only one, but you don’t mind right? I want everything off the dollar menu. With extra onion.” He paused. Canada hadn’t said anything yet. America decided to go all out. “And I want steak. Probably from Line Brew? Kazakhstan said that was a really good restaurant. Kind of expensive, but what are we going to do, huh? Can’t get steak at any old Outback Steakhouse!” Which is usually exactly what America did. “That’s it! Oh, but I also can’t pay you back. My budget doesn’t cover food. I know that it’s bigger than yours for this trip, but I spent all of mine on a show pony I saw along the way. Seems I’m not the best with money management!” 

Canada didn’t say anything right away. America was sure he got him; any second now, Canada would tell him to fuck off and announce that no prank was worth footing America’s ridiculous food bill. Of course, then America was stuck with the unappealing option of somehow feeding himself. Still, it would be worth ending this stupid prank once and for all. It wasn’t even a particularly good one - inconveniencing and annoying America in minor ways? The nations did that on a daily basis, there was no reason to go out of their way to do so... 

“ _Okay,_ ” Canada finally replied, and America held his breath, “ _Don’t worry about the bill America, of course I have you covered, eh?_ ” America nearly dropped his phone in shock. “ _Sushi, McDonald’s, steak. Got it! Text me if you think of anything else, I’ll be over soon._ ” And with that agreeable tone, Canada hung up. 

America limply allowed his own phone to fall out of his hand. It bounced off the garish sofa and onto the hardwood floor. It didn’t shatter, a miracle in itself, but a miracle that did not make any impression on America whatsoever.

That was easily a two-hundred dollar food bill. Most likely more. Astana was an up-and-coming metropolitan capital, and the restaurant prices were nothing to joke about. 

America shook his head, now having no issue getting up off his couch. He began to undress - he’d made his appearances, there was no need to look well put-together anymore. He slid his uncomfortably tight jacket off his shoulders, and clasped at his belt, mindlessly attempting to wrangle it off. 

Canada wouldn’t show. He and Prussia were laughing right now, at America and his insatiable appetite. All was well. Normal. 

So after an hour, America nearly dropped his phone again when a loud knocking interrupted his lonely Netflix session. 

_Holy fuck_ America thought, shivering into his sheets (yes, he’d moved from the couch to the bed - one could not have a proper mental breakdown without warm sheets to clutch at). Canada had come after all. The good news, America would finally eat. The bad news, everyone had gone certifiably insane. 

“Amerika? Are you there?” America dropped the sheets almost immediately. He’d know that childish, terrifying voice anywhere. He was grateful it wasn’t Canada, but this wasn’t exactly a step up. 

“Fuck off Russia,” America answered, “It’s my room, deal with it. Away with you.” 

“I would not dream of taking what is yours, America,” Russia replied through the barrier of the door, and America, as usual, was left with the unsettling feeling that Russia was going to kidnap one of America’s politicians and mercilessly feed them cyanide and cabbage until they gave up all of America’s secrets. It was a specific feeling, though he’d been reassured that Russia had this affect on many others. 

“Great,” he said, “Glad to hear it. Please leave.” 

Of course, Russia did not leave, and instead entered the room with relative ease. 

“Should I be surprised you have the keys to my room?” America said warily. 

“I am surprised you did not expect it,” Russia said, “I thought you knew me better than this. I have a master key for everyone of my former Soviet Republics’ meeting places. They do not know this, of course. Best keep up the illusion for their sakes. Tea?”

“You cannot offer _me_ tea, Russia, _I_ am the one staying here!” So much for all the diplomacy lessons he’d received at the hand of the Secretary of State. “And for your information, I haven’t even ordered tea!” Though he was going to soon - nothing better to lure England with than a smelly cup of leaf water. Someone needed to fill in the blanks of his notes when America inevitably fell asleep during one of the presentations. 

“Pardon my manners,” Russia said, making a beeline for one of the cupboards, “There is coffee as well. Ethiopian brew. Good for digestion.” 

“Implying I have digestion problems. Please leave.” 

“I am sure your digestive tract is ironclad,” Russia said, waving a hand dismissively. He pulled out, true to his word, a coffee blend from a cupboard America had not even noticed. “Would you like it with milk?” 

“Are we really going to fight about this room?” America moaned, distraught that Russia refused to vacate his personal space, “I really don’t have the energy. And I doubt you have the strength. How are those sanctions going?” 

“The situation is manageable,” Russia said diplomatically, not rising to the bait. America blinked in surprise. “Thank you for inquiring. Now - when are we going to sleep together?” 

Had America eaten anything in the past few hours, he likely would have thrown it up in shock. “Wh-What??” he whimpered weakly.

“I texted you,” Russia said, like it explained everything. “I certainly warned you.”

“You did NOT!” America shouted, well aware he sounded like England when his delicate sensibilities were offended and not giving a shit, “There was no warning! NONE! I thought you were joking!” 

“Silly of you,” Russia said, shrugging. He’d begun to heat the water for his tea. “Is our relationship built on humorous foundations?”

“It is certainly not built on sexual ones!” The pitch of America’s voice was getting higher, and he didn’t know how to stop it. “I-what-what is happening?!” 

“America!” A different voice interrupted, and in a complete 180-turn, America was suddenly extremely glad to hear Canada’s falsetto tone. “I have your food! I’m sorry it took so long, surprisingly McDonald’s was the most packed…” 

“ _Come in!_ ” America screeched before Russia had a chance to respond. Canada did, his hands full of bags brimming with sushi and fries. Despite the situation, America immediately salivated; he really was hungry. 

“I got a lot more tuna than yellowtail, I’m sorry about that,” Canada said, propping down the bags of food on the nearest table. “They were almost out. I caused quite a scene, heh, I think France would be proud, he always…” Canada’s voice drifted off. Of course, he’d spotted Russia. And now, for whatever reason, the two were glaring at each other from across America’s well stylized hotel room. “America, what is Russia doing here?” 

“Why don’t you leave the adults to play, мальчик?” Russia hissed, “Run along.” 

“America and I were going to spend a lovely evening together, thank you!” Canada harrumphed, puffing out his chest, and America felt this was not the right time to mention that he intended to take the food and kick Canada out. He also debated whether the two were deep enough into their argument to allow him to sneak to his fries without incident. 

“You will not be staying!” Russia said haltingly, and if America were honest with himself, his tone and countenance scared him a little. The childish smile was gone - his mouth was a cold hard line, pursed together, giving him the look of a powerful demonic presence. Perhaps America shouldn’t have laughed off England’s fear of the larger country so dismissively. 

It was a terrifying sight. And yet, to America’s great surprise, Canada did not back down. “Beat it Russia!” Canada said, “America called me, not you. I’m probably number one on his ranking system, you don’t have a chance!” 

“Wait, what?” America said aloud. Thankfully Russia did not hear, though he now appeared extremely thoughtful. 

“You have a system, wherein you rank us?” Russia asked, now addressing America. 

America thought quickly; clearly both Russia and Canada had gone insane. These were some drastic steps to take in the name of a prank. Canada had bought the food, and was willing to get his face smashed in by Russia and his Siberian super-strength. For...what? For America’s approval? And WHY was this stupid ranking system coming up yet again?! 

“He does,” Canada cut in, “France told me so. He said he was high up on it because he’s helping America with his presentation. But I got you food, America! Certainly I’m higher now than France?” 

“What the hell is going on,” America muttered faintly. Russia took this as a damning statement.

“You are not high-ranked at all,” he said, facing Canada. “You are pawn, used for food and chores Amerika is too lazy to do.” He turned back to America, violet eyes ablaze, and America felt a strong desire to curl up into his sheets once more, “But I will not be a mere pawn. I will prove myself to you, Amerika, and ascend to the highest rank of your system.” 

“I don’t-” America sputtered, “That’s not even-like _everyone_ has people they like better than others this is just-” 

“I am off. You will witness my commitment.” And with that, Russia fled, as suddenly as he’d come, leaving a rather triumphant Canada in his wake. 

“Well, he certainly has succumbed to wishful thinking!” Canada cheered, “As if RUSSIA could ever be a favorite of yours. Absurd!”

It was the third time America had heard a statement like this one in the past twenty-four hours.

“So! Where shall we start. Sushi first?”

“No offense Canada,” America said, eyes still frozen to the spot where Russia had made his absurd proclamations, “But I need you to leave. Like, now.”

\---

America had tossed and turned all night, despite his best efforts. He’d eaten everything Canada had brought, practically inhaling it, and tried very hard not to think about how tight his pants felt the next day (though really, it was a problem, because his zipper would not properly closed and he now had a slight belly which protruded over his belt - Russia, thankfully had said nothing about _that_ ). 

The next morning, he’d called his boss, who was never wanting in terms of critiques of America. Surely, she would have something normal, and negative, to say to him?

“Your report looks amazing, America!” she gushed as soon as she picked up, and America finally admitted to himself that something insane was happening. His boss did many things, but she did not complement. Anyone. Ever. “France-er, that is, Francis sent it to me, on your behalf. Very nuanced stuff! I enjoyed the international angle!” 

“I didn’t even write it,” America said, now desperate enough to fling his own credibility out the window, “I had Feliks and Francis write the entire thing. I don’t even know what it’s about. I’m just going to read off the paper and hope things go alright.”

For a moment, America thought he might have done it. His boss was breathing heavily, as if she was very seriously considering how to scold him into submission. If this didn’t do it, he didn’t know what would. 

It was why he almost groaned in irritation when she finally answered. “That’s rather conniving of you, but also utilitarian! Why do it yourself, when others can, hm? Save your energy!”

“I’m going to go,” America replied, “It’s late for you, I know. And I need breakfast.”

“Watch your health, and come back to us soon!” she chirped, and America could not hang up quickly enough. 

He got dressed; eager not to make a positive impression, he settled for his baggiest shirt and his most ill-fitting suit. It seemed he really needed to lay off the binge-eating sessions as an emotional crutch, because now neither his pants nor his jacket were buttoning up properly. It was just about the only disadvantage of meticulous tailoring his suits to fit him. Any change in body weight was not forgiven easily by the fabric.

But it wasn’t a major concern of his at the moment. As he struggled to wash his face, he read France and Poland’s composition on his iPad. It wasn’t bad - certainly better than what America would have come up with last night on a whim. And very surprisingly (or perhaps not, considering how everyone had been behaving yesterday) it did not criticize him or his countrymen too much. In fact, the more he looked over it, the more he realized the onus had been put on China to up his own conservation tactics. 

America groaned. China would surely not take kindly America’s eloquent speech on why China needed to be fucking better at fixing his shit. They’d be fighting within the hour, no doubt.

Although...America finally finished wiping down his face, and stared at his own reflection almost inquisitively. Everyone had been acting strangely, that was for sure. But he was becoming less and less convinced it was for a joke. France, Poland, Canada and Russia had all expended considerable amounts of either energy or money to keep America happy last night. Of course, America did not know the reason behind this. But if the theme from yesterday kept up today as well…

He decided not to get breakfast, still feeling some caloric guilt from the night before (and, in the back of his mind, he was slightly worried the fabric off his pants would completely fail him if he strained it anymore), and instead spent an hour pacing around his room and reading the finer details of “his” report. When it was finally 8:57am, he breathed a deep sigh, mentally reminded himself that heroic hunks like him did not chicken out at the thought of a nice Russia, and made his way downstairs to the meeting hall they’d be gathering in.

He was grateful to encounter no one on the way, as it allowed him to collect his thoughts without random interruptions. However, he was surprised to see that when he finally did arrive (at 9:01am, a minute late, Germany would undoubtedly glare the whole hour), everyone was already talking. Or rather, everyone was already _shouting_. 

And it very literally was everyone. They’d all seemed to break off into separate shouting groups, and there wasn’t a single quiet nation among them. In fact, America spotted Canada in the very center, participating in a rather involved shouting match with Japan and Russia, proclaiming something along the lines of “You may have invented sushi, Japan, but I bought it! And don’t get me started on you, you tub of ice lard! Yeah, that’s England’s insult for you, what of it?!” 

To make the situation even more puzzling, Germany had jumped in the fray as well rather than attempting to bring order to the meeting. He and Kazakhstan seemed to have teamed up against Prussia, who’d covered his ears and starting singing an awful rendition of a WWII fighting hymn.

America never, ever envisioned his role among his fellow nations to be keeper of the order. But he needed something to go normally on this absurdity of a trip. 

“GUYS!” he shouted, and, in an action he should have perhaps expected, everyone immediately shut up and turned to look at him. To his mild amusement, they all looked somewhat shamefaced. “Erm, I’m sorry to interrupt whatever the hell this is, but we should start,” he said, “I’m sure this is nothing a few proxy wars couldn’t solve, hm?” 

It was the kind of joke that he’d stopped making recently, because it always got on everybody’s nerves. But yet again, that day seemed to keep his life interesting. 

“How amusing, America!” Kazakhstan said, grinning, and America realized that he actually meant it, “You’re right of course, what a rude host I’ve been! Everybody, please, take your seats.” 

“The seating chart is in alphabetical order, and you will respect that!” Germany suddenly barked, and America turned to find France had been inching closer toward the seat next to his own, which had of course been labeled with a _United States of America_ placard. What was stranger than France, however, was that Germany almost seemed mad that there was an alphabetical seating chart. Which was impossible. There was nothing Germany loved more than seating charts...right? 

America made his way over to his seat. Immediately, he was flanked by Uzbekistan, who looked like a feminine copy of Kazakhstan, which meant Asiatic features, ebony black hair, and a tall, thin build. He didn’t really have an opinion on her, not usually having any business with her country that required his presence. He smiled in what he assumed was a neutral way, and she immediately turned bright red. And _giggled_. As far as he was concerned, no one from Russia’s neck of the woods giggled. 

He shook off her strange reaction, and took his seat. To his surprise, the chair on his other side was about to be taken by Ukraine, who was also wearing a bright smile. Now, usually America would have been quite excited about this, as Ukraine had certain features he...found favorable. But instead he was struck with an urge to be far away from her cheery personality. 

“Actually, Ukraine,” he said, reaching across the chair to prevent her from sitting, “This one’s for England. _United Kingdom_ and all that, I’m sure he’d be pissed if we don’t save a seat for his bitter ass even when he’s not here, haha!” He’d intended to come off as joking, but realized he sounded slightly hysterical. Ukraine, though she pouted prettily, nodded her consent and took her assigned seat.

America let out a breath of relief. Uzbekistan looked at him with a touch of concern, but he very steadfastly ignored her. 

“Now that we are all settled in,” Kazakhstan’s booming voice interrupted America’s short brooding session, “Let’s get started! Now I know we normally have introductory remarks and a few contextual notes before we begin the bulk of the presentations, but I think we all can agree that today, we can skip all of that and simply begin with America’s presentation and ignore all the nonsense, hm?” 

They all nodded in consent, a few clapping in excitement. Japan gave America a shy smile and a slight bow from across the table. Prussia gave him a strange lewd wink. China was applauding enthusiastically at the motion. 

America shook his head. Something was going on. He’d wasted a lot of time thinking it was a prank. Clearly, everyone was...what, enamoured with him? Wanted to be his friend? Perhaps this was something that happened to nations if they passed a certain threshold of superpowerdom. He remembered desperately wanting England’s approval when he’d been younger; perhaps that wasn’t the result of an embarrassing childhood crush, as he’d thought back then, but a phenomenon like this? 

There was only one way to find out. 

“I’ll keep it brief,” America announced, not even opening the document France and Poland had likely slaved over, “My topic is conservation. My thesis is that my country is struggling with this alone. _None_ of your conservation efforts have impressed me, least of all…” _Well, it was the moment of truth…_ “yours, China.” He stood up and pivoted so he was facing the nation in question. “You’re really falling behind on the goals we agreed on. And you’ve been asking for way too much outside assistance. You need to shape up...and I need more money. Er, capitol. Interest free. To make up for the...erm, lackluster...for the shitty job you’re doing. Chop chop, dude.” 

It was the final test. China did not take kindly to being disrespected. Not to mention, America was lying through his teeth and being a total douche while doing so. 

But the surprises kept coming. China stood from his seat, and clasped his hands together. 

“I will make arrangements with my government, America-san,” he said, using Japan’s honorific for him, “I am so sorry I have disappointed you.”

And America slumped down in his seat in shock.

Shock...but not quite displeasure. The rest of the meeting went quite similarly. America aired his grievances, making demands of each of the nations who were present, and delighting at their instant consent and eager approval of everything he said. By the end of the hour, he had Uzbekistan draped across his arm somewhat inappropriately for a professional conference, enjoying the way her bony hips fit into the crook of his arm. He did not know what was responsible for this sudden change in attitude from everyone, but he was finding it hard to care. They all gazed at him with such complete admiration, hanging onto his every word, and he had to admit he enjoyed the attention. 

It had been a very long time since he’d had such friendly interactions with these people. And he’d never had them all be so pleasant at once. Very soon, they had moved on from topics of international cooperation and were talking about America’s diet and regimen. 

“And I was really worried you guys would kick me out of the hot-buff-blonde-dudes club,” America was confessing, addressing Russia and Germany. He’d unbuttoned his jacket, finding it difficult to breathe, and his stomach was spilling over his tightened belt buckle. Uzbekistan was petting it. “I don’t have a lot of time to work out anymore. Like, don’t get me wrong, a few weeks and I’m back to prime. But, uh, it’s been a while.” 

“You are more attractive than both of us combined,” Germany said without a trace of irony. And America found himself grinning. So what if it was kind of weird? Germany was acting like a total bro, and America finally felt like he was surrounded by friends. Perhaps everyone had mutually agreed to stop acting terribly towards him and ignore politics, just focusing on admiring him and all he had achieved. He didn’t blame them. He was quite awesome. 

He looked at his phone and found it was eleven. Although it had been a very pleasant and (for him) productive session, he still wanted some time to get a coffee, and maybe even some food to make up for his missed breakfast. He announced that it was break time, and was pleased when everyone instantaneously agreed. 

“I’ll be back, I promise, so no following me around, y’hear?” he grinned at the resounding laughter that followed his statement. He found himself almost skipping out of the entranceway and calmed down to a normal pace once he was in the hallway. 

He really was pleased. He’d gotten a lot of concessions, a lot more than he’d expected. And nobody was acting like a dick! Hell, play his cards right and he could unexpectedly get laid, maybe even tonight! With Uzbekistan...or Ukraine...or both of them _together_...

He swallowed, willing the thought away, though a slightly lewd grin had appeared on his face. 

He drank his coffee in solitude, processing his morning. Even his boss was nice to him. His pilot. And France. Who hadn’t even been angry that America ignored his report. 

America liked it. He liked being the center of their attention. He liked Uzbekistan’s gestures, and the jealous looks Ukraine had shot her. He liked that Germany found him attractive. And that China and Russia looked on at him with deference - they hadn’t been getting along great lately, but maybe they’d changed their tune. Maybe America could bring some peace or something, starting with these useless meetings. Instead of arguing with him all day, they could all discuss the possibility of badass robots who’d fly them all to Mars. It seemed like a win for everyone to America. 

Soon he realized his five-minute break was long over; with a curse he rushed, as quickly as he could, across the zig-zag hallway of Astana’s great meeting hall. Surely, it wasn’t Astana’s only meeting hall, but America found this fact to be trifle. 

To his chagrin, finding the way he came was not as easy as he’d assumed. He wasn’t lost, not yet, but he certainly had to double check his bearings. When the paintings along the walls started to look familiar again, he breathed a sigh of relief and picked up his pace, rounding the nearest corner as fast as he could.

Of course, because he was not paying any attention to where he was going, he crashed headfirst into a solid body mass that had been taking its sweet time trotting down the corridor. Neither America nor the other person fell, though the they stumbled rather comically and nearly crashed into a nearby decorative table. Finding his bearings quickly America stabilized himself, looking up with the intention of apologizing to the poor person he’d almost shoved to the ground. To his surprise, he saw England, now standing over the table and holding a half-empty thermos. With a wince, America realized that most of the liquid (probably piping hot tea) had spilled all over England’s front, staining his coat. And it was likely an expensive coat, judging by England’s expression. 

But America was not thinking too much about the coat. “Sorry,” he said carelessly, “I wasn’t paying attention, I think I’m late. Not as late as you though, hah! Must have been a hell of a bender, England, to miss an entire day of a conference!”

And to America’s great surprise, England’s face contorted with an emotion the younger nation realized he had not personally encountered in two full days - displeasure. Toward _America_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I do not give a crap, in this universe Hillary Clinton is the president and I am sticking with it.


	3. England, Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England gets a glimpse into America's bizarre new world.

America hadn’t realized how quickly he adapted to new situations. 

For Christ’s sake, he hadn’t even accepted his new reality until a few hours ago that morning. Up until then, he had been almost entirely convinced that the whole world had suddenly come together in one night, put aside their rather considerable differences, and committed to fucking with America’s brain in an innocuous way. And still, despite the fact that it had been less that forty-eight hours and America had spent most of them in utter disbelief, he still couldn’t bring himself to easily accept England’s sharp frown. 

Well, it was more like a pout. But the western hemisphere had learned long ago not to let England know about that particular trait. 

“America,” England said snidely and without the reverence America was now used to hearing, “I would say it’s a pleasure, but I’ve been encouraged by my boss to keep my lying to a minimum.” 

Same old England. The problem was, this really threw a wrench in the behavior America had come to expect in this short period of time. 

“Let this be a lesson to you - don’t be late,” America replied. It had been a long time since he’d apologized to England specifically, and he’d be damned if a spilled drink and a stained coat changed that status quo. 

England merely rolled his eyes, clearly expecting the response. “Right. Charming as always. Shall we go, or did you want to waste my time a bit more?” He turned casually, drinking the rest of his tea in one go. He didn’t look back to see if America was following. 

America felt his eyebrows furrowing unhappily. England wasn’t behaving in a manner that was different than usual - short tempered, dismissive, and snide seemed to be his modus operandi, even when he and America spent copious amounts of time together. The larger man usually wasn’t bothered - hadn’t been bothered by England’s behavior for decades now. 

But perhaps this was because, compared to his relationship to other nations, England’s unpleasantness was downright domestic. 

Or at least it used to be. 

The two of them made the short trek to the conference room in complete silence. England didn’t look too bothered by their lack of communication, but it made America rather shifty, especially since this rather unexpected crash back to reality made him re-examine how his morning had gone. Would the other nations behave in the same seemingly lovestruck way they had all of yesterday and today? Or would England’s presence shift the strange new foundations? 

Well, America was about to find out. They reached the glass doors relatively quickly, and England strode in without hesitation. 

“I apologize for my tardiness,” he stated simply, dropping his thermos onto the table and beginning to unbutton his coat, “I really have been getting my dates mixed lately, and America just ran into me on the way over here, bloody prat -” 

“Don’t call America a prat,” Germany interrupted flatly. America almost burst out laughing at England’s stricken expression. 

It seemed the Briton would get a crash-course in America’s strange new life much quicker than anyone anticipated. 

“I’ve called him a lot worse,” England said, still wide-eyed and unseated. Germany, if possible, looked more irate at this comment. 

“Your lack of manners do not excuse such behavior,” England’s mouth opened to defend himself, but Germany held up a hand preemptively, “We need to get on with the conference. England, please take your seat. You are already late, I ask you not to waste any more of our day.” 

England sat slowly, eyes never leaving Germany’s cold countenance. The tension in the room was thick and could be cut with a knife. America found himself suppressing a giggle. 

“Right, let’s chill out, yeah?” He found himself saying. And, though he really shouldn’t have been, he was surprised to see Germany’s expression immediately warm. He even managed a small, secretive smile. 

England was instantly suspicious, and America could tell. Still, the younger nation took his seat next to his friend, and nodded politely to Kazakhstan. 

“So, er,” America began, trying to ignore how every single person was staring at him intently, “Thank you all for allowing me to air out my grievances this morning. I appreciate it. If at all possible though, I’d like to hear...what you all-your presentations, I’m sure, are valuable as well. Let’s continue according to schedule?” 

He tried to ignore England’s incredulous look. 

Kazakhstan, meanwhile, seemed delighted at the situation. “You are most gracious, America! In that case - Japan? You had some concerns regarding the Asiatic sphere’s national security bubble?” 

It continued about as normally as a conference could, after that. The only difference being that everyone, save England, laughed uproariously every time America made so much as a comment. Uzbekistan was also suspiciously close to him again, and at some point their fingers had intertwined. America didn’t necessarily mind, but Ukraine was shooting dark looks over England’s shoulder and America was still mildly uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit. Lunch couldn’t come soon enough. 

And yet, he unfortunately did not have to opportunity to go to the all-inclusive buffet Kazakhstan and his chefs had prepared for the first day, because as soon as their host dismissed them for lunch, England grabbed America staunchly by the arm, ripped his fingers from Uzbekistan’s tight grip, and dragged him out of the conference room and up the stairs before any of the other nations realized quite what was happening. 

America was actually used to England’s pushy behavior at this point. And no one used to mind that England purposefully monetized most of America’s time. And yet, in this instance, America could not help but feel that the reactions would be different.

Still, he let himself get dragged away. Threesome with Ukraine and Uzbekistan aside, there was something to be said about the sense of normalcy he got from England’s perpetual ire.

“What the _fuck_ was that?!” England had finally reached his capacity for silent stewing, it seemed. America rolled his eyes. They weren’t even out of the building yet, though England was purposefully striding toward an exit. “What is going on with Germany? Why was everybody laughing at your jokes? Was Uzbekistan holding your _hand_?” 

America shrugged, and chose not to point out England’s own death grip on America’s fingers. “Search me. They’ve been acting like this since yesterday.” Perhaps even longer. A few ill-conceived text messages suddenly came to mind... 

England let go of America’s hand in order to prod the glass doors of the main entrance open. A cold gust of wind swept through, and America was quickly reminded that neither he nor England had taken their coats with them. England seemed not to have noticed. Instead, he grabbed the crook of America’s arm and began to drag him again. 

“Where are we going?” America finally said, curiosity winning out, “You’ve been here less than three hours, you can’t possibly have any appointments already.” 

“Like hell am I eating in France’s vicinity.” England’s expression was frozen in a sneer. “And after Germany’s little fit, I’m not too fond of him either.” 

America groaned. “So, you’re feeling antisocial. You’re dragging me down with you?” 

England pinked a little, though it could have been from the frozen winds beating at their faces. America tried not to assume too much when it came to England’s emotional swings. 

“You don’t usually complain,” the older man said warily. He dropped America’s arm, and America shivered suddenly from the lack of heat. 

“It’s been a strange few days, I guess,” he said vaguely. England looked up at him, frown replaced with a look that could only be described as contemplative. His cheeks were still rosy. America supposed it had been the wind after all. 

“Tell me about it,” England suggested, veering off to the right into a cafe. America followed him - he wouldn’t say no to a muffin or a mocha, and England could usually be persuaded to buy. 

America told England about his last few days, starting with the suggestive messages he began receiving two mornings ago. He’d even let England read a few of them, before the Briton lost his composure at the string of dirty poems Prussia had sent him an hour ago. 

“And he rhymed it with _rock_ , how original!” England had laughed while America rolled his eyes and ordered a tuna salad. He was still regretting his lack of portion control from the other night. 

He’d continued his story when the two sat down at the corner of the cafe, knocking their knees together underneath the tiny table. England had, shocker, ordered a tea and a muffin, but had taken a fork in order to steal bits of tuna off of America’s plate. The bespectacled man took no notice, instead continuing his harrowing tale of nice bosses, annoying interns, and a show-down between Russia and Canada which America may or may not have embellished slightly. England had just nodded through the whole thing, looking vaguely scandalized. 

“ - I assume it’s a status thing,” America concluded, taking large gulp from his coffee. “You know? They’re all attracted to me because I’m the hegemon of the world, blah blah blah. It was a long time coming, I admit, but it makes sense. I thought it was a prank at first, but no way in hell does Canada drop that type of cash on a prank.” 

England sighed deeply. “It’s not because you’re a superpower.” 

America raised an eyebrow. “You sound pretty sure of yourself. How would you know?” 

England rolled his eyes, taking a final bite of his muffin. “If anyone would know, America, it’s me. I was the largest empire on earth, and I promise you, it endeared me to absolutely no one.” 

“Maybe they showed it differently,” America said, though now he was concerned. This had been the only explanation that made some modicum of sense. He hadn’t thought about it, but England was right - he was the most qualified to speak on this topic. And besides, now that America pondered a little more, he’d known France when the older nation was at his most powerful, and had felt nothing more than a slight revulsion toward France’s perfume. It was an uncomfortable realization, one that pulled America’s only explanation out from underneath him. Well, that security had not lasted long. 

England was unaware of America’s predicament. He shrugged. “Maybe they did. But in my experience, this hasn’t ever happened before. The only thing I ever felt toward Rome was a healthy dose of ‘fuck you, mate.’” America nodded slowly. 

England, apparently sensing America’s renewed stress, attempted to veer off onto a different topic. He started off, as he usually did, by complaining about his older brothers and their apparent idiocy, which America disputed as usual, and pretty soon they were in some sort of pseudo-fight that, at the very least, felt as familiar to America as his own bones. England was pointing a finger at America’s face, and America was debating slapping it away, when they were unceremoniously interrupted by the barista that had served them their food twenty minutes ago. 

“Excuse me, _sir_ ,” she practically hissed in perfect English, taking both of them aback. America had not even noticed her approach. She had put of her hands on her hips, and her dark gaze was narrowed toward England. The whole cafe seemed to be staring at them. America slouched in his seat, grateful that she seemed to be targeting England exclusively. “Some of our customers have been complaining about the volume of your voice. I ask you kindly, to be more silent.” 

England quite obviously also noticed this unfair assignment of blame, throwing a withering glance in America’s direction. America grinned good-naturedly - it wasn’t his fault that his voice seemed to lack the cadence England’s had. 

“Конечно девушка, извиняюсь,” England apologized grumpily, still glaring at his colleague. England’s Russian was far superior to America’s, and it usually won him brownie points with the locals. Today, of course, seemed to be the exception, as the barista’s stare only became more suspicious. America decided to take pity on his friend. 

“Простите, пожалуйста,” America began in his stunted Russian, “Мы еще - er, England how did you say, uh...еще относимся как иностранцы -” 

To England’s great surprise, the barista was all smiles when America was the one addressing her. “Wow, your Russian is so great!” she said, not even allowing America to finish the painful sentence he was struggling to construct. “Your accent is like a native. I have never heard one so good before.” She grinned, pulling lightly at her bouncy ponytail. 

America was not modest by nature, but even he could objectively recognize that England’s foreign language skills were far superior to his own. It wasn’t because England had any natural talent - America was the one who could speak some ramshackle form of Spanish, Mandarin, Italian, French, and Russian without any practice at all - but the older nation had an appreciation for languages and took advantage of his status and managed to learn quite a number of them competently. It happened when one was an immortal looking to pass the time. So America could see why England looked suddenly so dismayed at the barista’s lack of approval. But just because America understood it did not mean that he didn’t find it hilarious. 

“Спасибо,” he said to the barista graciously, shooting her a wink. She blushed, and with a parting warning glance at England, left them alone again. 

This time, England wasn’t interested in changing the subject. “What. The. Fuck.” he said eloquently as America gathered the trash. “What in the hell was that.”

America neglected to mention that everyone in the cafe was still staring at them. 

“I told you dude,” America said, shrugging, “Weird few days.” 

\-------

Eventually the two of them had frog marched back to the conference building, England now finally noticing that every passerby glanced at America for at least a second. He had initially been affronted - America, trying hard not to freak out now that his only explanation of everyone’s weird behavior had been undermined, snorted at England’s indignation. 

When they finally got back, it was to a rather rowdy conference room. Of course, everyone stopped their conversation as soon as the two English-speakers entered. 

No one looked pleased, and every glare was directed at England. 

“Typical, Angleterre,” France spoke first, frowning deeply as if England’s very existence was offensive, “You kidnap the poor boy against his will and don’t allow him to speak to anyone else. Creepy as usual.” 

“Creepy?” England replied, bewildered. “We do this every conference!” 

“Poor America,” Uzbekistan said sympathetically, grabbing onto America’s arm rather roughly. He grinned sloppily at her, and she winked. 

“It is time for my presentation now,” a voice broke over the chattering and whispers. America looked around to see Russia, drawing up to his full height, waving around a USB. “I suggest we all have a listen, yes?” 

“It’s not even your turn today,” England bitched, but was reduced to a furious silence when every single country, including their host, glared at him dangerously. America would have felt sorry for him if Uzbekistan hadn’t leaned into his chest, allowing him ample opportunity to smell her vanilla scented hair. Overall, not a bad way to ward off a panic attack, even if England was glaring a hole into the back of his head. 

They all settled down, England taking his rightful spot to the left of America, and turned their attention to the presentation Russia was fiddling with. Russia was not one for visual aids normally, preferring to speak in a clipped but pleasant manner until all of his updates and speeches were done. However, this time he seemed pretty insistent on showing his colleagues something. America tried to ignore the searching looks Russia occasionally shot his way - he wished they were because Russia’s ex-Soviet compatriot was clinging to America’s wrist, but America had a feeling it had a lot more to do with their frankly disturbing conversation last night. 

Finally, Russia managed to pull up some sort of slide show on the borrowed projector. There were no words - only dozens of pictures of what America recognized as uranium mining fields. He frowned in confusion, and caught England doing the same - Russia’s presentation was supposed to be on historical preservation and upkeep. 

“I shall keep this short,” Russia started, smiling in a very unsettling way. He was staring at America exclusively. “As you all know, my country is the largest possessor of natural uranium in the world, and Russian companies own stakes in several uranium rich mines outside of Russia as well.” America shifted slightly - some of those stakes happened to be located in the U.S., and he did not like being reminded of that fact. Russia, however, pushed on. 

“I have talked it over with my boss, and he, along with my parliamentary legislators, agree that this is no longer a priority for our nation. Therefore, we have decided to relinquish control over uranium mining fields based in the United States, as well as several in Russia. Of course, as of now we require no financial compensation for-”

England knocked his thermos clear off the table, jaw hanging open in shock. America was not much better; he had clenched Uzbekistan’s hand hard enough to make the accommodating nation grimace in pain. 

Russia was smiling brightly. “Of course, should anybody have some sort of ranking system in which I am in anything less that first place, I hope that this demonstration of goodwill remedies that fact. Thank you.”

“ _What the fuck?!_ ” England was hissing at America, but the younger nation paid him no mind. He was still staring wide-eyed at Russia. 

It couldn’t possibly be real. It was one thing for the other nations to fawn over America personally, to buy him food and hold his hand. There was always a very clear line between political actions and personal ones. It’s what allowed America to have a casual conversation with Japan without descending into madness. Thus far, everybody’s strange behavior, unsettling as it was, affected America and America’s inconsequential personal bubble. But Russia was offering to give up million-dollar stakes in the United States for the promise of America’s _approval_ , something Russia had literally never given a shit about before. 

“Russia,” America whispered, “Are you serious right now? What are you doing?”

Russia was still smiling. “Why America, I thought you would be pleased. You're always complaining about the natural resources I have - so I thought I'd share.”

England looked to be on the brink of a panic attack. But he wasn’t the only one seemingly displeased. 

“You fight dirty Russia,” Kazakhstan was looking slyly at the larger nation, dark eyes wide, “Since when do you have that sort of authority over your legislature?”

Russia didn't even look at him. “Thankfully my boss has a vested interest in keeping me happy,” he said calmly, “And whatever makes America's life easier makes me happy. An easy life makes for an easy bedfellow - isn't that right America?”

America was shaking, but Russia had finished his peace. He sat down without trepidation, smile never leaving his broad face. Both England and America continue to look bewildered but the other nations did not seem surprised - merely agitated.

The conference went mostly normally after that. The nations who were supposed to present did so speedily, paying special attention to America and desperately hoping for his commentary. The young nation did not have much to say. He threw furtive glances at Russia, but the taller man paid him no mind. America found he was was no longer in the mood to hold hands or make nice with anybody.

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be really honest with you guys, I didn't realize how much international relations affected my fondness for Hetalia until freaking Brexit and Trump made the subject almost unbearable to think about. I, of course, separate politics from fandom, but lately, any thoughts about politics are so unpleasant that I actively avoid them during my leisure time. 
> 
> Not to mention, this discomfort came right at the same time as watching Supernatural for the first time (yeah, it's so 2008, sue me). I had avoided that show because the idea of Castiel and Dean really disinterested me, and usually, fandom is all about shipping, but I found myself really adoring Sam, and long story short for the first time in seven years I'm in a different fandom. 
> 
> I'm planning on continuing this story, but most likely it'll read almost OOC because I'm not really interested in keeping with any of the Hetalia archetypes anymore. I'll try and be consistent with what I wrote in the first two chapters but that's about it. But despite a lack of interest in the actual fandom, I love England as a character so much that he almost feels like my own rather than borrowed - I think this is because I've deviated so much from his canonical portrayal that I don't need fandom to keep up my interest. BASICALLY, I am just ranting to say that I will keep updating to the best of my abilities, and thank you all for being loyal readers, etc. etc. 
> 
> (On a side note, if any of you are fans of Supernatural, there are so many grievances I would like to air out...)

**Author's Note:**

> Don't even look at me. I'm ashamed of myself as well.
> 
> Quick note - Astana is the capital of Kazakhstan. Your fun fact of the day.
> 
> Please review, it keeps and author's spirits up during California's cold and unforgiving spring season.


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